


Finally Something Good

by Aurora0331



Series: Rock Out On The Sea [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But not that kind of daddy, Daddy!Sandor, F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, One Shot, So damn fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurora0331/pseuds/Aurora0331
Summary: A one-shot follow up to Rock Out On The Sea





	Finally Something Good

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot follow up to Rock Out On The Sea – it can be read on its own but the context may be a bit hard to follow! The reaction to that fic was sooo amazing and heartwarming, the comments and kudos you guys left had me feeling so inspired. Sandor is giving me major grumpy protective dad vibes this season and I’ve been in the middle of nowhere doing research the last week with not much to do in the evenings, so I’ve had some time to put together this fluffy little meringue for you all! I hope you enjoy. Note, it’s not that I don’t ship Jaime/Brienne, it’s just that I also love Tormund/Brienne and let’s be real she deserves both. Also, RIP MY MANS BERIC and sorry if you catch me pushing my own agenda here!

Sandor’s son wrapped a pink, chubby fist around the last knuckle of his index finger and cooed up at his father, a silvery line of dribble connecting his chin to the powder blue bib Sansa had put on him for that exact reason. Sandor gave a soft little snort.

‘Look at you,’ he muttered, extending his free hand to wipe away the offending spit. ‘Bloody helpless.’

As if in response, the baby blew a few more bubbles for good measure, making a noise like an outboard motor getting started. His wide eyes were blue, just like his mother’s, but he already had a shock of black hair carpeting his tiny head that could only have come from Sandor’s side. Sandor stroked the fuzzy little mop, marvelling at the way his son’s head fit perfectly in one of his huge palms. It seemed unfathomable that this sweet, perfect little creature shared half his DNA.

 

From the next room, Sandor could hear the soft murmur of Sansa’s voice. Before he had met her, Sandor didn’t think he was capable of loving another human; but she had changed all that, and then he had been sure that he would never feel anything so deeply as he felt his love for her. He was wrong there, too; because when little Ben had been born – named for Sansa’s uncle Benjen, who went missing during a covert military operation – Sandor had known, from the second he saw him, that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep this child safe. And, of course, he loved Sansa all the more for giving him that. He sat quietly, listening to the gentle hum of her intonations, and looked down at his son, who seemed to be listening too.

 

In the dining room, Sansa was meeting with the Minister for Agriculture and Fisheries. She had been trying to set up that meeting for months, ever since the data she had gathered on the puffins was published; but it had taken so long for the Minister’s office to get back to her to arrange a date that when they eventually did she had been forced to decline, having just given birth to their child. The Minister, though, to her credit, seemed genuinely interested in pursuing the meeting, and had offered to come to visit Sansa personally, a proposal she could hardly refuse. So, there they were, sitting at the dining table together pouring over maps and graphs and figures, and Sandor had taken the day off work to keep little Ben occupied. He didn’t mind it so much. The Minister, a Ms Brienne Tarth, was a huge woman – almost as tall as him – and athletic to boot, with shoulders as broad as a rugby player’s. The impression was not helped by the dark blue pantsuit she wore; Sandor fancied she looked rather like one of those old English police boxes, and she was just as stiff as one, her platinum blonde hair cropped short in a no-nonsense sort of style. But still, she was honest and frank and wanted to help Sansa’s puffins, and so he liked her well enough. He listened a little harder, trying to make out what Sansa was saying.

 

‘This is the data from the GPS trackers I used. You can see how far they were having to fly to fish; honestly, I think it’s a miracle that only three nests were abandoned that year. I don’t think the outcome would always be that good.’

‘I was under the impression the seabird numbers have been improving in recent years,’ that was the Minister’s voice.

‘Yes,’ came Sansa’s patient reply. ‘Anecdotally, anyway. We don’t have any data to support that, though, and increased numbers could be due to improved conditions in their winter feeding zones and therefore a higher survival rate after fledging, not lower nest mortality. We still need to protect their breeding grounds.’

‘What are you proposing, Doctor Stark?’ the Minister asked shrewdly.

‘A ban on any and all commercial fishing within a fifty kilometre radius of the Quiet Isle.’

There was a long silence. Sandor listened with bated breath, waiting for the Minister’s response – but before she could speak, there was a rap on the door.

‘Sandor? Are you expecting anyone?’ Sansa called to him.

‘No,’ he responded, refraining from using any of the colourful language he usually would as he lumbered to his feet, extricating his finger from his son’s grasp. The baby pouted up at him, and just then there was another, much more insistent knock, accompanied by a shout of –

‘Open up, Hound, we’ve come to see the pup!’

 

Sandor groaned audibly. _What in the bloody hells was that mad fucker doing here?_ He passed through the dining room on his way to the front door, casting an apologetic look in Sansa’s direction. She was visibly worried, her cerulean eyes wide as she sent him a silent cry for help. The last thing she needed right now was Tormund bursting in and buggering everything up.

‘Sorry about this,’ he huffed to the Minister, attempting to smooth things over for Sansa’s sake. ‘I’ll send them off.’

 

Sandor had barely turned the latch on the front door when it was kicked open, his doorstep darkened by a giant, bedraggled Norwegian dressed in a bright yellow anorak and grinning from ear to ear.

‘Hound!’ he bellowed, reaching out in an attempted embrace, which Sandor deftly swatted away with a growl of _fuck off_. Not even the least bit perturbed, Tormund pushed past him without even stopping to remove his boots, laughing and yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Where’s this little pup, then? I want to see the baby Hound! Sansa!’

 

Behind Tormund came Beric, smiling a little sheepishly at Sandor as he stepped through the doorway. Sandor shook the older man’s hand – about as close to a show of affection as he could manage, because damn him if he wasn’t happy to see the one-eyed old bugger.

‘Listen, you need to get him out,’ Sandor growled. ‘Sansa’s meeting the Minister today.’

‘That’s _today_?’ Beric at least had the decency to look shocked, and turned to Tormund as if to reign him in, but it was too late. The two of them stood in the passageway and watched in mounting horror as the great ginger madman stomped into the dining room, leaving clumps of dirt in his wake.

‘Sansa! Good to see –‘ Tormund started to speak, but then fell silent. Sandor hurried after him, only imagining how much Sansa must be panicking now, and entered the dining room to find Sansa and the Minister exactly as he had left them, with Tormund standing at the far end of the table. Silence fell heavy on the scene, and it was a strange tableau – Sandor edged around Tormund and saw, to his horror, that the man he reluctantly called a friend was staring at the Minister with a look of admiration and awe. The Minister, in turn, was looking incredibly uncomfortable, and Sansa herself had turned as red as a fire engine.

‘Tormund,’ Sandor barked. ‘Not a good time. Come back tomorrow.’

Tormund ignored him completely, and pulled up a chair, sinking into it as he continued to gaze at the Minister without so much as blinking. Sandor looked at Sansa, who met his eyes helplessly, before clearing her throat and saying, ‘Tormund, this is Ms Brienne Tarth, she’s the Minister for Agriculture and Fisheries, and we’re just having a meeting about the p–‘

‘I know a little something about fish,’ Tormund cut her off, directing what Sandor had to assume was meant as a boast towards the Minister, his eyes wide and a crooked grin splitting his unkempt beard.

‘Indeed,’ the Minister managed, looking awkwardly at Sansa as if requesting backup.

‘Ahh…’ Sansa seemed to be struggling to find a way to diffuse the situation, and Sandor had to admit that he was at a loss himself. He had never seen Tormund like this.

‘Tormund, you want to see the baby or not?’ Sandor demanded, hoping that this would work. It seemed to have some effect, because Tormund tore his eyes away from the big blonde woman in the suit and looked up at Sandor.

‘Bring him in here, then,’ Tormund slapped his knee enthusiastically.

‘We don’t want to disturb the ladies, Tormund,’ offered Beric, who was hovering in the doorway.

‘Oh, not at all,’ the Minister said, though Sandor had the distinct feeling that she was only being polite.

‘You heard the big woman,’ cried Tormund, to noises of resounding dismay and outrage from Beric, Sandor and Sansa. ‘What?’ he shouted defensively. ‘She is big. And I like it.’

 

If only to escape the ensuing awkwardness and tension that followed that remark, Sandor hurried from the room to collect Ben. He paused over the crib for a moment, looking down at his son. Ben looked right back, his little legs kicking absentmindedly as he reached up for his father. Sandor’s heart melted, and he reached down to scoop up the tiny thing. Gently, so gently, he cradled the baby’s head as he brought him up to his chest, resting him there just above his own heartbeat. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching him, Sandor pressed a soft kiss to Ben’s head. He smelled like baby powder, and something else sweet Sandor couldn’t quite identify.

‘Come on,’ he murmured, turning back towards the dining room. ‘Time for you to meet these bastards.’

 

Beric had seated himself at the table, and the room was silent – Tormund was staring at the Minister, and the Minister was pointedly _not_ returning his gaze, while Sansa looked on, mortified. When Sandor came through the doorway with Ben on his shoulder, she jumped up, looking relieved. Sandor looked at her, one hand wrapped around their child’s little warm body, and felt a swelling of affection. She had plumped out a little in her pregnancy – become a little “fluffy”, as she called it – there was some extra padding at her breasts and arse, which, coupled with the glow of motherhood that seemed to radiate from beneath her very skin, had Sandor hard and ready at a moment’s notice. Their love had only grown with Ben’s birth, and their relationship was stronger than ever. He made to pass Ben over to her, but Tormund intercepted, taking the baby out of his hands with a chuckle.

‘Look at him,’ he exclaimed, mercifully supporting Ben’s head as he sat back down. Ben gurgled and reached out to tug Tormund’s beard. ‘He likes me!’ Tormund roared with laughter, startling Ben so much that his eyes went round as saucers and his little fists retracted as if burnt, though he did not cry. Sansa curled her hand around Sandor’s arm, her expression equal parts nervous and doting.

‘Ah,’ Tormund was sighing, pinching Ben’s cheek gently with thick, dirty fingers. ‘Makes you want one of your own, doesn’t it?’ he looked up at the Minister and winked pointedly. At that, Sandor found he had suddenly had enough.

‘Right,’ he barked, reaching down to take his son from Tormund’s grasp and pass the now squirming Ben to Sansa. ‘That’s enough out of you, you mad bugger. Get out.’

He grabbed Tormund by the collar of his coat and dragged him from the room. The shorter man stared back over his shoulder at the Minister, calling out, ‘We’ll meet again!’ as Sandor flung him out the front door. Beric followed behind them, clapping a hand on Sandor’s shoulder.

‘Your son’s beautiful, Clegane,’ Beric smiled, his good eye twinkling kindly. ‘You must be very proud.’

‘Aye,’ Sandor acquiesced.

‘Never thought I’d see the day,’ the older man gave his shoulder a squeeze before stepping out onto the garden path. ‘But I’d say there’s not a man more deserving. The Lord is smiling on you.’

Sandor snorted at that. He’d like Beric much more if he wasn’t so fucking religious.  ‘That’s a fucking lie. If your damned God was real, he’d be punishing me for all the shit I’ve done, not rewarding me.’

Beric chuckled, shaking his head slowly. ‘Ah, Clegane. You’ve suffered plenty in this life. Don’t be a glutton.’

With that, Beric turned to grab hold of Tormund, who was still staring blankly through the kitchen window, as if hoping to get another glimpse of the Minister. ‘Come on, you daft bastard, stop mooning. Let’s go get a drink at Barristan’s.’

‘She’s… beautiful,’ Tormund murmured, allowing himself to be towed away. Sandor permitted himself a genuine bark of laughter, before turning back into the cottage.

 

In the dining room, Sansa was cradling Ben to her breast and speaking in a low voice to the Minister, who seemed to have recovered tolerably well from the shock of all that had just transpired.

‘Doctor Stark,’ the Tarth woman said, as Sandor re-entered the room. ‘I’m on your side, here. I can’t pretend that I think the proposal will be well received, but the data’s all here, and I’ll do my best to get the rest of my party to see it that way.’

‘Thank you, Minister,’ Sansa beamed, and Sandor saw the tension melt from her frame at last. ‘And I can’t apologise enough, about… well, you know.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ the Minister returned the smile, shaking Sansa’s hand and then Sandor’s. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. Please don’t hesitate to contact my office any time.’

 

Sansa saw the Minister out, Ben still dozing in her arms, and when they were at last alone, she turned to Sandor with a shaky laugh.

‘What just happened?’ she asked incredulously.

‘No fucking idea,’ Sandor shook his head, wrapping his arms around Sansa and his son, the two people he cared for more than he could ever put into words. ‘Think Tormund’s in love.’

Sansa laughed, then heaved a great sigh as the exhaustion of the day caught up with her. Sandor led her to the bedroom, where they curled up together on the thick quilt, their son between them. Within moments, the baby was asleep, apparently just as worn out by the afternoon’s events as they were.

‘He was so quiet, all afternoon,’ Sansa murmured, one hand running absentmindedly through Sandor’s hair while the other wrapped around one of Ben’s tiny feet. Sandor hummed in agreement, closing his eyes to enjoy the tender caress. He cherished these moments with her, now that there was an extra little person in their life. ‘He takes after you there,’ she teased. ‘A man of many words.’

Sandor chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her a little closer. ‘Aye,’ he rasped as he kissed her face gently. ‘We both let the little bird do all the chirping.’

Sansa captured his mouth with hers then, smiling against his lips. His affectionate moniker for her still melted her heart.

‘Well done, today,’ he told her, when he pulled away at last. ‘My clever lass. You’ve got the big bitch hooked.’

‘Sandor!’ she admonished, softening her voice so as not to wake Ben but landing a sound slap on his bicep just the same. ‘Don’t call her that. She’s lovely.’

‘Aye, Tormund seemed to think so.’

They both chuckled gently, and Sansa rested her head on Sandor’s outstretched arm, eyes closing. He stroked the hair back from her forehead as she began to doze, and thought about what Beric had said.

 

He had to admit, there were still times when his mind grew dark and he questioned how all of this could be real. A lifetime of self-loathing was a tough habit to break. But Sansa was patient with him, and now that they had Ben there was no time for all that; he had a responsibility to this helpless little thing, an animalistic protective instinct that overcame everything else. Sandor’s hand brushed Ben’s cheek – impossibly soft – and he felt the gentle zephyr of his son’s breath as he did. It was unfathomable, a damned _miracle_ , that he and Sansa had created a life together, this tiny, perfect being. Sandor snorted to himself. Perhaps Beric was right, after all, and whatever divine providence there was had finally smiled on him instead of shitting on his head like a seagull. Once, time had meant nothing to Sandor; he simply trudged on, day after day, and tried to find little moments of joy where he could; whales breaching off the Quiet Isle, the smell of earth after summer rain, a particularly fine sunrise. Now, his life stretched ahead of him in a haze of golden promise – of years spent loving Sansa and their son. Sandor curled himself around these two precious people and allowed himself to drift off too, lulled by the rhythm of their breathing as he once had been by the breaking of waves on the rocks at the Quiet Isle. Finally, Sandor Clegane had something good; and he wasn’t sure whether he truly deserved it, as Beric had said, but he sure as hell wasn’t letting it go.

 


End file.
